This story was the result of a writing prompt exercise and I kind of liked it.

By Jason Offutt

When I lie, I lie for a reason. Now was a good reason.

Red and blue flashing lights topped the hill behind me. I saw the cop on a highway access road about a mile back, but it was too late to slow down. He hit me with a radar gun, and the lights came on. It’s my fault. I can’t blame the cop for doing his job. It’s just that, damn. Bad timing, dude. I was excited, and when I get excited, I get sloppy. Totally my fault.

I slowed the 1982 Cadillac Eldorado to a stop on the shoulder. I could have driven a newer car, sure, but I liked the Caddy. Lots of memories, lots of room in the trunk. The trunk. Geez, I hoped he didn’t look in the trunk. That would be unfortunate.

A ring tapped my driver’s side window. I only caught it out of the corner of my eye, but it was big and gold. Maybe an Aggie ring. Right state for it. The window moaned as the old motor lowered it into the door, my index finger on the switch steady. No nerves here. Everything was under control. 

A warm breeze blew in as a state trooper leaned over the open window. His scent flooded my senses, musky with a hint of sweat and cologne. Easy to follow. The man was about six-foot-two, and more than 200 pounds of muscle. 

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

A slight grin tugged at my face. “Yes, sir.” The words were smooth, no seams. There never were. “I was about four or five miles over the speed limit. Sorry about that.”

It was more like ten or twelve, but I lied. It’s what I do.

The trooper shined his heavy police flashlight in my face. I didn’t blink. Those lights were designed for two things, to temporarily blind a suspect, and to crack a skull if things went south. Good luck with mine, buddy. My smile widened, but I never showed teeth, not this early. He stepped back anyway.

“Out of the car, please,” he said, his words softer now.

I didn’t have time for this, but one of my rules, hard and fast, was to never argue with the police. 

“Sure, officer.” 

The man in a dark blue shirt, and shiny black leather belt, watched me pull myself out of the Caddy. His hand gripped the handle of the Glock 22 still in its holster. I noticed that, sure. I notice a lot of things. So would he. I kept my right hand resting casually over my upper thigh as I faced him. The trooper probably wouldn’t see the splattered blood in the dark, but you never know. 

“Step away from the vehicle,” he ordered. There was a strain in his voice, a quiver. He knew something was off about me, but didn’t know what. I did. It was my eyes, emerald green with pupils too vertical for most people to look into for long.

I nodded, and slid away from the door, my feet moving silently like a cat’s. All this was on the cop’s dash cam, I knew, but didn’t care. I always showed up fuzzy on camera.

“I’m really sorry, officer.” 

I wasn’t. 

“I just lost track of my speed.” 

I didn’t.

“I’ll be more careful from now on. I’m pretty harmless, you know?” I lied again. That was almost convincing. I smiled wider, revealing three rows of sharp, serrated teeth.

The trooper lurched backward, and almost lost his footing. Boy, would that have been a mistake. If he’d dropped to the ground, I couldn’t have kept myself off him. But he didn’t fall, and I already had one dead man in the trunk, so I just nodded. 

 “I’ll be sure to see you later,” I called as he ran to his cruiser. He hit the accelerator and spun off the gravel shoulder, leaving dark streaks on the highway as he disappeared over the next hill, red and blue still flashing.

Yeah, I let him go. Like I said, he was just doing his job. Besides, I wasn’t really that hungry. Not yet.